Dimly, Through Glass

by Knight, Dirk

  Terror lights her face when she sees the man. Also now, there is a priest, all black with a white collar and short black hair. But the priest is faceless. There are hints of his features hiding behind a blur in her vision: she tries to focus, look to the side to see him in her periphery, but his appearance is fleeting like the little squiggles you chase when your eyes are too strained, or just after a sneeze. Here in one instant, never existed in the next.

  Fearing for her life, she now turns to run, hoping to make it to her salvation. To her Uncle Carron, but she is swimming in molasses. The molasses hardens into something worse, she cannot move. Between her immobility, and the lengthening of the deck as he moves, it appears that they have actually gotten farther apart. She looks to her feet and finds them bound in chains. Her eyes follow the chain’s length to an enormous white block of cement.

  Just as white as her dress, the block looks to be, minimum, five hundred pounds, but is easily held by the man in the black suit. The chain is run through a small steel loop on the end of the concrete block, an eyelet she thinks it’s called, not that it matters, but she keeps honing in on the word.

  Her uncle is still running towards her, he is closer and gaining fast. He is almost to her, when the man pulls out his revolver and fires one shot. Before the bullet reaches him, her uncle Carron disintegrates into sand and sifts down through the wooden slats of the pier.

  Her stomach is burning hot. She looks down to see her white dress reddening—blood fanning out and soaking into the intricately stitched patterns.

  The splash is more audible than the gunshot had been, and the man in the suit is gone, but the block of concrete is now in the water and the chain is dragging her into the drink.

  The water is icy. She cannot hold her breath any longer. She is stretching her body as long as she can and her fingertips are licking the surface, but she cannot gasp for breath.

  Evie wakes with a start, drenched in sweat and out of breath with her heart pounding. She is thirstier than she’s ever been before; a miniaturized mimeographed replica of the Sonoran Desert in her throat is intensified by her breathing. It hurts too bad to even want to call for help, not that anyone would hear and come to her rescue anyhow.

  She is still confused and disillusioned from the odd drowning dream and wonky from the injection that the man gave her. Her entire body heavy and weak, she fights the urge to vomit, fearing the added strain and inflammation to her trounced throat will be too much to bear. Her headache, previously dull and constant is now coupled with an acute and piercing throb behind her eyes and in the rear of her cranium. She’s never experienced anything so intense in all of her nineteen years.

  Remembering the hazy dream she hopes for her uncle, who will most likely never even know she’s gone until it’s too late. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes and streak down the already carved paths through her mascara, hesitating at her hairline before dropping into the folds of her ear.

  She sees a shadowy figure standing at the top of the stairs and jumps back, as much as she can, given her restraints and lying position.

  How long have they been there? she wonders. The figure, silhouetted against the backdrop of the starry night, does not move immediately, instead remains a silent observer until Evie rasps out a cry for help. Due to the muffling of the tape, the protest of her wrecked larynx is barely audible to even her. The figure descends the stairs deftly, revealing long flowing hair that bounces in and out of the shadows as they descend. She can only assume that this is the mother the man has spoken of. The one whom she had been instructed not to wake. She can only hope that the apple has fallen well far from the tree and Evalyn, for the first time in years, silently prays to God for salvation.

  A soft whisper escapes the mouth of the shadowy figure, “Shh, shh, it’s okay dear,” the whisperer says. She uses her free hand to pry the tape down and away from Evie’s nostrils, revealing her lips. The other hand is holding something shiny, something that glimmers slightly in the moonlight. The silhouette begins to trickle ice-cold soda into her open mouth. The carbonation hurts and she coughs up spurts into the air as she chokes in surprise.

  Evie turns her head away from the glinting soda can and evacuates her mouth and throat. The voice persists, “You need the sugar dear,” and forcefully grips Evie’s forehead in powerful, viselike hands. No longer dribbling, but now pouring with fervor, she empties the can into Evie’s mouth, who chokes and struggles against her damaged windpipe and esophagus to swallow the carbonated sweetness before the unrelenting flow can drown her.

  Without warning a loud burst of music erupts from somewhere nearby. It sounds to Evie to be a car stereo, based upon the dampening effect the vehicle has on the music, also due to the rattling noise, which accompanies the bass notes. The silhouette pulls the tape up forcefully, covering Evie’s mouth again and giving her a very deliberate “SHHHH.” Though the adhesive no longer carries the same grip, and isn’t attached with the same unforgiving teeth as it had been moments ago, it will serve its intended purpose in dampening any further cries. The shadowy figure then darts away, up the stairs and into the cover of the stars. The cellar doors close silently and effectively block the starlight before the metal bar secures the doors to the frame and locks them in place.

  For a moment spent in disbelief, Evalyn wonders if the woman is coming back, or if the woman was a woman at all, and not just another hallucinatory daydream brought on by the drug she was administered. Realizing she is, again, alone, she begins to sob once more.

  Hand in the Cookie Jar

  Libby is catatonic when Dennis rushes over to her and yanks her into the house by her flowing dark hair. She doesn’t attempt to flee, nor does she appear to be completely disgusted; a little bit, maybe, but not completely.

  “What, the fuck, are you doing here, Libby?” he asks, closing the door behind her. She submissively says she has come here to be with him, and that she wants to know more about the things he does.

  Dennis can see the way she is searching the victims with curiosity, elation, jealousy, and excitement. The look he sees embossed across her brow is one he is all too familiar with; it is the look of desire and longing. She either genuinely enjoyed what she saw, or is one hell of a fucking liar.

  He had the same look, the same static electricity feeling overtaking his being when he first read about Ted Bundy.

  He wanted to be Ted Bundy.

  Or, at least, to be like him so he could exact revenge and inflict his will on all of womankind. Tonight was a turning point for Dennis, a moment of triumph and exaltation.

  “I don’t think you’re getting it. How the fuck did you find me?”

  “I used an app to track your cell phone. Who are these people?”

  “Are you shitting me; you can do that?”

  “Yeah, you know my brother was a computer whiz . . . I guess I picked up a few tricks.”

  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “No. . . . So who are these fucking people, Dennis?”

  “Later. We need to get out of here pronto,” he says, seeing Jiménez for the first time since exiting the car—conveniently absent while a spectator had been hovering over his back—standing in the corner, pointing his hateful Mexican eyes towards Libby and motioning with his thumb across his exposed throat. Dennis gives him a small nod in agreement and leads the group out the door.

  “Where did you park?” he asks while opening his passenger door and ushering her into the leather seat.

  Dennis’s pride and elation flutters to a new low, as he realizes that, albeit a fun and rewarding act, it was careless. He is down on himself, questioning his worth, as always. He feels exposed and vulnerable. This kill wasn’t planned or safe whatsoever. He had let his emotions and his buzz get the best of him and acted out a rash decision.

  He felt better in knowing that the street was darkened and deserted. Most of the houses along this row are rented, by the semester, to college kids, who are home with their parents celebrating Chr
istmas break,he thinks to himself, feeling somewhat comforted.

  Dennis pulls alongside her SUV. “Give me your phone,” he says to her.

  She doesn’t so much as hint at hesitation, and pulls it from her back pocket. He drops it into the cup holder, collects his GPS from the windshield, selects his mother’s house form the populated list of recent addresses, and hands it to her.

  “You are going to take this and follow the directions. I will be right behind you. Do not speed, do not swerve, and if you try to lose me, so help me God, I will catch you, and I will hurt you. Are we clear?”

  “I won’t disappoint you, Dennis.”

  “Just get out,” he says and clicks the unlock button from his master control panel on the driver door.

  “Oh, Libby, one more thing. Leave your headlights off until you see me fire mine up.”

  She nods in understanding. It appears to Dennis that she is holding back tears and that her eyelids are soon to be a burst dam.

  Jiménez crawls over the center console and installs himself into the passenger seat, not bothering to latch his safety belt, and the procession starts towards Dennis’s mother’s house.

  “This is not good, ese. No bueno.”

  “No shit, Captain Obvious.”

  “You realize that you have to kill her, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know that, but I can’t very well have her body turn up here, especially with that dick cop on my tail. He’ll tie her to me.”

  “So, don’t let her body turn up; you can’t just keep going all “Bonnie and Clyde” and expect to make it more than a week. You’re careless, emotional, and naïve. You need to learn some restraint.”

  “You know what, fuck you!”

  “I’m here to help you pendejo, ‘cuz if you go down, I go down too. And I am not going back to prison,”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . wait. I read your bio. You’ve never been to prison; and if you are just a figment of my imagination, I’ve never been to prison either.”

  “I know, but I always wanted to say that shit,” he says with a smile. After an exaggerated pause, and strained intensity as they maintain eye contact, both men erupt in laughter.

  “Okay, so what’s your plan?” Dennis asks.

  “Well, it looks like you let her off the chain. She was getting off on that shit back there. I think we have to draw her in, and let her get tangled up. We could even tell her we want to do a kill together and leave her to the fucking crows.”

  “I like the way you think, Jiménez.”

  “I bet you do, puta.”

  When Libby turns into the long secluded driveway, she comes to a stop and waves Dennis around to her window. “Turn off your headlights and follow me,” he says, taking the lead.

  He jumps out of the car, walks back to Libby and says, “I’m going to go see if we can stay here tonight. I’m not sure yet. Give me your keys.”

  She fishes the key out of the ignition and hands them over, but leans out the window, pulling him into her mouth and kissing him deeply. He can feel her body shaking with fear and adrenaline.

  “I would never do anything to hurt you, baby,” she says.

  “I know you wouldn’t, I’m just being cautious.”

  He can see the admiration in her, she seems so proud of him. She is so young and vital in this moment. He admires her and loves her again like he did when he first entered her. She has a spell on him. He hands her keys back and gives her another angry kiss. “I’ll be back in a few minutes: just stay here and entertain yourself.”

  Quietly he enters the front door. He can hear the refrigerator’s compressor click on, the ticking of a grandfather clock in the common area up front. There aren’t the usual ramblings of a television set, whose volume has been adjusted to accommodate the deafened ears of an aging woman. There is only the noise created by the stillness. If he were to sit long enough in this deafening silence, he could learn the house’s persona. He would be able to identify the areas of the home which needed care, based on the creaking of boards due to settling. He would know where insulation needed to be replaced, based on the skittering of rodents. If he were to recognize these signs, he would understand the house to be truly empty and neglected, but he’s never taken the time to get to know his father’s house.

  He isn’t used to the irritating silence that berates his ears presently. His mother, a notorious insomniac, is always blaring some show or another at top volume, making pilgrimages to the refrigerator, and subsequently to the bathroom. Dennis slips easily undetected back into the room he’s called his own for decades. He grabs his travel bag from the small suitcase he brought with him. He will need to shower, but not here. The guesthouse will suffice, as he feels eerily uncertain about his mother. Perhaps she is gone now, but her car is still in the drive. He is uncertain of her return, or who she will be bringing in tow.

  He grabs a small bag of pot from the dresser drawer and adds it to the travel accoutrements before zipping the bag shut.

  He gets a twinge of uncertainty as he approaches the front door. Jiménez whispers in his mind that something isn’t right. He hears a shuffling noise upstairs in the silence.

  Impossible, he thinks, I am just being paranoid. Still, his mind conspires to best his confidence and he sets the travel bag at the door and turns silently to the stairwell. He ascends, ghostlike, towards his mother’s darkened room. Her door is partially open and there is the faintest of light seeping in through the northern window. Though he remains assured that no one is in the home with him, his heartbeat amplifies when the stair groans in protest beneath his weight, betraying his location.

  The very moment he reaches the landing, his hand outstretched to fully expose the empty bed and alleviate his fears, there is a violent burst of music that spews from his driveway. Dennis spins on his heels and clatters noisily down the stairs, fleeing his mother’s hauntingly absent presence and hunting for a scapegoat to blame for the outburst. He explodes through the screen door, allowing the creaking aluminum to fly freely in the night air and slam-bang back into place of its own volition. He rumbles down the patio steps to find Libby with a look of embarrassed humiliation and distress.

  His fist crumples her before she can utter the first words of exoneration.

  No News is Good News

  An abrupt chirp fills the silence of Carron’s extravagant bedroom. Molly Ringwald eyes the noisy phone angrily then lays her head back on the corner of the pillow nearest Staley, who reaches to the cell phone blindly and snatches it up in his depreciated left hand. A 928 area code prefaces the number in the LCD display. Who would be calling me from Northern Arizona this late? He wonders briefly before hitting the green key to accept.

  “Staley speaking,” he barks hoarsely into the receiver.

  “Hey Carron, it’s Jeff. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “It’s alright, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway,” he says, and then chuckles to himself when Jeff doesn’t. “Jeff Parker? Not that I’m not pleased to hear from the Sherriff’s office before dawn on a Sunday, but what the hell are you doing up this early?”

  “Yeah it’s good to hear your voice too, old friend. I’m actually up because I have been working a scene all damn night and just got a chance to break away.”

  “You County boys must not get too much action, if you had to wake me up just to tell me about it.”

  “All kidding aside, Carron, we need to talk.”

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Highway Patrol came up on two cars along the I-17, just before Highway 89 breaks off, and handed it over to Maricopa County for investigation. I have some questions I am hoping you can help me with.”

  “So I take it this isn’t a traffic issue?”

  “Not hardly, partner.”

  “Well, Jeff, that’s pretty damn far from my jurisdiction but I’ll do what I can within my circle of influence to move some stuff for you—”

  “We found a cell phone, Carron.”

  “Huh? Okay, so�
�”

  “We found a cell phone at the scene and it is registered to your Verizon account.”

  “Wait; back up . . . what the fuck happened?”

  “Highway was dispatched by 911 to a car on fire. When patrol got there, the first responder tried to put the fire out with his extinguisher. By the time Coconino Fire got there, the entire car was toast, but it had a body in it, a marshmallow really. Little more than soot, ash, and bone actually. ”

  “A body . . . and a cell phone linked to my account?” he asks. The tone of his voice betrays a hint of the fear, which is tearing holes through his general demeanor of calm and confidence. There is only one cell phone on his account, other than the one he is currently holding to his face.

  “Carron, who does the phone belong to?”

  “My niece; was she involved in the wreck? Please tell me it wasn’t her body in the car?”

  “Not unless she was six and a half feet tall. And, yes, there was a wreck, but that’s not what caused the fire. The body we found has a bullet hole through his sternum and a slug buried in the spine. Our forensics team is telling me the car was a torch job, probably to cover up evidence of the shooting; no VIN numbers or tags on the car. We’re gonna have to pull serial numbers from the engine block. May take a while, the whole fucking thing is melted into a lump”

  “Was the car a Lumina?”

  “Yeah, is that what your niece was driving?”

  As if he is hearing himself speak through a television set, as if he weren’t real, and this were happening on a set or a soundstage somewhere in Hollywood, “Yeah, that’s hers.”

  “Listen, Carron, I’m sorry to be the one telling you all this.”

  “What else?” Staley demands angrily; briskly.

  “The last call made from the phone was to a kid named Jarrod Wesley. You hear of this kid before? She ever mention him?”